Casanova's Demise

The humidity of Manila always seemed to peak just as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the city in a hazy, neon-lit fever dream. Inside Luna, the most exclusive lounge in Bonifacio Global City, the air-conditioning was blasting, but the heat remained—generated by the friction of bodies, the pulse of the bass, and the predatory instincts of the city’s elite.

Heinrique De Vera, known to everyone as Riki, sat at the center of it all. He was the eye of the storm. At twenty-two, Riki had perfected the art of the “Casanova.” It wasn’t just about his looks—though the sharp jawline, the messy-on-purpose mahogany hair, and the eyes that always seemed to be sharing a private joke helped. It was the way he moved. He occupied space with a terrifying level of confidence, like he’d already won a game no one else knew they were playing.

“Riki, huy! Nakikinig ka ba?”

Jax, his long-time friend and resident enabler, nudged him with a glass of expensive gin. Jax was laughing, gesturing toward a group of girls at a nearby table who had been stealing glances at their VIP booth for the last hour.

Riki tore his gaze away from the entrance, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Oo naman. You were saying something about your Dad’s new yacht? Or was it the girl from last weekend? Honestly, Jax, they all start to sound the same after a while.”

“Gago,” Jax snorted, though there was no heat in it. “Ang sabihin mo, bored ka na. Pang-ilang number na ba ’yan tonight? I saw the girl in the red dress slip you a napkin earlier. Hindi mo pa rin tinitingnan?”

Riki reached into his pocket, pulled out the crumpled piece of paper, and tossed it onto the glass table without a second thought. “Sabi ko naman sa ’yo, it’s too easy. The chase is over before it even starts. It’s like playing a game on easy mode, nakakasawa rin.”

He leaned back, his eyes scanning the crowd with a practiced, predatory stillness. He wasn’t looking for beauty—there was plenty of that in Luna. He was looking for something different. Something that didn’t belong.

And then, he saw him.

Tucked away in the far corner of the bar, far from the strobe lights and the VIP tables, was a guy who looked like he had been dropped there by mistake. He was sitting on a high stool, a glass of plain sparkling water with lemon in front of him. He wore a crisp, white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that looked lean and strong.

But it wasn’t the outfit that caught Riki’s attention. It was what the guy was doing.

In the middle of a club where the music was loud enough to vibrate your ribcage, this guy had a sketchbook open. He was drawing. His head was tilted, eyes narrowed in deep concentration as he looked up at the ceiling’s industrial rafters, then back down to the paper, his hand moving with a fluid, disciplined grace.

“Sino ’yun?” Riki asked, his voice dropping an octave, the boredom vanishing instantly.

Jax followed his line of sight and immediately groaned. “Ay, naku. Stop right there, Riki. Seriously. Huwag ’yan.”

“Why? Does he belong to someone?” Riki’s interest piqued.

“No, worse. He belongs to himself,” Jax explained, taking a long sip of his drink. “That’s Oliver Shawn Lopez. Oli. Fourth-year Architecture student sa State U. Top of the board, future starchitect, the whole deal. Pero pre, matigas ’yan. He’s not just snobbish—he’s indifferent. Girls, guys, models, trust-fund babies... marami nang sumubok lumapit dyan. He doesn’t even reject them, he just... ignores them. Like they’re background noise.”

Riki felt a familiar spark in his chest—a thrill he hadn’t felt in months. Indifferent. That was a challenge. “Indifferent lang siya kasi hindi pa niya ako nakakausap.”

“Huwag kang makulit, Riki. Oli is different. He’s not into the scene. He’s only there because his cousin owns the bar and makes him study there sometimes para ‘lumabas naman ng kwarto.’ Spare yourself the ego bruise, man. He’ll eat you alive without even looking at you.”

Riki didn’t reply. He was already standing up, smoothing out his designer leather jacket. He didn’t check his reflection in the mirrored walls; he knew exactly how he looked. He navigated the crowded floor like a shark through a reef, people parting ways instinctively as he passed.

He reached the bar and didn’t sit down. Instead, he leaned against the counter right next to Oli, invading his personal space just enough to be noticed, but not enough to be rude.

Oli didn’t look up. His charcoal pencil continued to scratch against the heavy paper, sketching the intricate geometry of the HVAC ducts above.

“You know, the perspective is off,” Riki said, his voice smooth, dripping with that effortless Taglish charm. “The vanishing point should be slightly more to the left if you’re trying to capture the depth of those beams.”

It was a lie—Riki didn’t know the first thing about architectural sketching—but it was a calculated one. He wanted a reaction.

Oli’s hand paused. For a three-second beat, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he turned his head.

Up close, Oli was even more striking. He had a quiet, understated beauty—neatly trimmed black hair, a sharp nose, and eyes that were so dark they looked like ink. But it was the expression in those eyes that caught Riki off guard. There was no flicker of recognition, no momentary “wow” that Riki was accustomed to. There was only a cold, clinical curiosity.

“Actually,” Oli said, his voice surprisingly deep and calm. “The vanishing point is exactly where it needs to be for a three-point perspective from this seat. If you’re going to use an opening line that involves technical knowledge, make sure you actually have the knowledge, De Vera.”

Riki’s eyebrows shot up. A smirk spread across his face. “So, you know who I am. I’m flattered, Oli.”

Oli didn’t smile back. He didn’t even look annoyed. He just looked... tired. “Mahirap hindi malaman kung sino ka. Your reputation precedes you. You’re the ‘Casanova’ ng BGC. The guy who treats people like Pokemon—gotta catch ’em all, then leave them in a box when you’re bored.”

Riki laughed, a genuine, rich sound. He leaned closer, his scent—a mix of sandalwood and expensive tobacco—filling the small space between them. “Grabe naman ’yung Pokemon analogy. I just appreciate beauty when I see it. And right now, I’m looking at something very... intriguing.”

Oli finally closed his sketchbook, the sound of the elastic band snapping shut echoing in the small lull between songs. He turned his body fully toward Riki, crossing his arms.

“Intriguing? Or a challenge?” Oli asked, his gaze unwavering. “Listen, Riki. Let’s skip the next ten minutes of this conversation. You’re going to offer me a drink. I’m going to say no. You’re going to tell me I’m ‘not like the others.’ I’m going to tell you that’s a cliché. Then you’ll try to get my number, and I’ll give you a fake one just to make you go away.”

Riki was stunned. He had never been read so accurately, so quickly. He felt his heart skip—not out of romance, but out of pure, unadulterated excitement. This wasn’t easy mode. This was the final boss.

“Who says I’ll give up that easily?” Riki whispered, his eyes dropping to Oli’s lips for a fraction of a second before meeting his eyes again. “I like a challenge, Oli. And I think you might be the most interesting thing in this entire city.”

Oli stood up, and Riki realized they were nearly the same height. But while Riki’s presence was loud and demanding, Oli’s was heavy and grounded. He picked up his charcoal-stained bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“That’s the problem, Riki,” Oli said, stepping closer until they were inches apart. For a moment, Riki thought he might actually lean in. But Oli just leaned toward his ear, his breath cool against Riki’s skin. “Para sa ’yo, ‘interesante’ lang ako. Para sa akin, istorbo ka lang. Don’t waste your time. Focus ka na lang sa mga taong madaling makuha. You’re out of your league here.”

Oli pulled back, gave Riki one last, unreadable look, and walked toward the exit without looking back.

Riki stood there, frozen at the bar. The scent of Oli—something clean, like rain on pavement—lingered in the air. He felt a strange heat rising in his neck. It wasn’t just attraction; it was a bruise to his ego that felt surprisingly good.

He turned back to his table, where Jax was watching him with a “told-you-so” expression. Riki didn’t sit down. He just stared at the spot where Oli had been sitting.

“Oli...” Riki whispered to himself, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. “Hindi mo alam kung ano ang pinasok mo.”

In Riki’s world, “no” was just a “yes” that required more effort. But as he watched the heavy glass doors of the club swing shut behind Oliver Shawn Lopez, for the first time in his life, Heinrique De Vera felt a genuine sense of dread.

He had called this “Casanova’s Demise” as a joke in his head earlier. But as he stood in the middle of the neon lights, feeling suddenly, inexplicably alone, he realized the joke might be on him.